


Where Have All The Flowers Gone

by arrowhearts



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coping, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Thestrals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:55:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24889501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrowhearts/pseuds/arrowhearts
Summary: How do you continue to grieve when it seems like everyone else has moved on? How do you talk about the thestral in the room that no one else wants to see? For all his adventures it wasn’t as if Harry had done this before. Told a child's parents that he had brought back their son’s body. There was no one telling him how to do this the right way....
Relationships: Neville Longbottom & Luna Lovegood & Harry Potter
Kudos: 5





	Where Have All The Flowers Gone

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something small I wrote awhile ago about grief. To be honest, I probably wouldn't be posting it now if I wasn't feeling so bitter towards JK Rowling for her recent doubling down on transphobia. *shrug emoji* I guess spite isn't the worst motivator for putting my first fanfic out into the world.
> 
> "wizard salmonella" should be a wrock band

The way that seemed to hurt the least—or not hurt so deeply for a time, was to let himself remember Cedric now and again, with Luna and Neville, with Ron and Hermione when he was sure he wasn’t adding another burden on them.

“You swear that this one’s not going to take a bite out of my arm, right?” Harry couldn’t help but ask as he held out the leg of chicken (uncooked, and “borrowed” from the school kitchens). His tone wasn’t too harsh though. He used his other hand to stroke the boney ridges of the nearest dark winged thestral.

“Oh, you’re friend’s back again, look!” Luna whispered excitedly as one of the smaller colts half-flew half-wobbled in Harry’s direction. Luna herself was favored with the attentions of a sleek grey mare, who nibbled delicately on the uncooked meat she held out.

As Hagrid had mentioned in his Care of Magical Creatures lesson, the Hogwarts thestrals could take care of themselves. They usually had no need for human contact aside from Hagrid. But they weren’t wild like dragons, thestrals got on with wizards when the wizards in question had shown they were worth trusting. It happened often, Hagrid had said that wizard villages would get all out of sorts when a thestral herd passed through while on migration. He’d shaken his head sadly while telling the class a story of a mare who’d been struck dead while trying to make aware the townspeople that a group of young wizards had hurt themselves while camping near a ravine.

“…they found the kids o’course, but not until they’d killed or Stunned half the herd who were just trying to nudge them to their children. Thestrals are sweeter creatures than we deserve, I reckon.”

Until that lesson with Hagrid, Harry had wanted very little to do with the creatures that only reminded him of all the deaths he had and had not seen. And while Harry would have stood up to anyone who criticized Hagrid’s teaching, If he was being honest it wasn’t Hagrid's lesson on the animals misunderstood nature either. It'd had quite a lot to do with Umbridge’s appearance, and her insistence that that the thestrals, and by extension, the great oaf who’d taught them about thestrals were “highly unprofessional, and certainly not Ministry-approved” that had changed his perception of the creatures.

Neville joined them some nights, and Hagrid joked that the three of them should feel free to start a Dangerous-Seeming, But Really Alright Once you Give ‘em a Chance Club, before Harry had quickly reminded him that all student clubs required High Inquisitor approval. At least Harry hoped Hagrid had been joking; thestrals were one thing, after a while they were just like really skinny horses after all. Harry had gotten used to them. But he had much stronger reservations about meeting other creatures in Hagrid’s “loveable monster” category—he suspected many of them would be quick to disembowel their handlers to show affection.

“You all finished?” Neville asked ask he came into view at the edge of the Forest. Seeing Luna and Harry’s empty hands, he sighed with relief and came closer. Neville was fine with the thestrals by now, it was their eating habits that didn’t sit well with him. And to be fair, Harry also felt a bit squeamish if he thought too much about the magic behind it all. Hermione had informed him that thestrals were effectively blind, and the two things they could see were those that had seen death, like Harry, and that which had died, like the piece of chicken flesh that still clung to the bone he had been holding. The friendly colt had started to chomp the bone itself into smaller bits. Harry looked back toward Neville, and at what he was holding.

“Neville, if this is another one of Sprout’s rejects you’re going bring back to our dorm and try to—“

“No, and that was one Blubbertuber, and it only scorched through my bedpost…Anyways, these are just muggle flowers from my own collection for today. I, I uh was talking with Luna earlier, and I had some of the seeds from home.”

Neville had access to some of Professor Sprout’s most advanced greenhouses, and her collection of fertilizers, some of which were so potent that they could grow an entire forest of wand trees in an hour…if the grower didn’t mind some interesting behavior from the young forest. (Tree’s grown entirely by magic tended to have strong personalities, like the Whomping Willow). But seeing as this shrub wasn’t trying to throttle anyone who came near, it had probably just received a pinch of magic fertilizer.

The flowers looked familiar to Harry, though he couldn’t have named them. He remembered they were the kind of flowers that didn’t seem to know when to stop blooming. He’d seen their yellow petals poking through dustings of snow when he was young enough to still be spending winters with the Dursely’s.

“May I?” Luna motioned to Neville, and then again to small colt as she plucked one of the stems with just a single spot of yellow. Neville nodded and Luna finished by placing the bloom on the thestrals’ silky black mane.

“That’ll certainly spook some first years.” Harry commented, “seeing a flower zoom out of the woods toward them.”

“Well, when I first saw the thestrals, I did think that they could do with a bit more color. It was right as the term was ended and I got on the carriages for the first time. ” Luna noted.

“Oh,” Harry thought to himself, not quite sure of what to say. He'd only been able to see the thestrals this summer, and in the shock of it he hadn’t considered that the other two had both been able to see thestrals since the start of first year.

“We've been talking about Cedric,” Neville said, following Luna’s lead and gently removing another flower from the shrub. Very gently, as if asking the plant’s permission.

“We've been talking about how…how it’s like he was never here, no memorial, none of the professors mention of him, nothing. Well, except at the DA that is.” Neville looked away from the potted shrub and at the blossom in his hand. He stood taller for a moment. Harry had been noticing that Neville wasn’t actually as short as he had assumed, he just sort of hid his height most of the time. Looking at him now, Harry realized Neville really wasn’t much shorter than Ron.

Cedric had 'gone on', as it were, but his ghost still haunted the corridors. There was nothing whispered of Cedric, it was as if the school had forgotten how to say his name anymore. The professors at the start of term had mentioned, “the extremely tragic circumstances of the end of last year”, “a tragic loss..." "a bright young individual taken from the world too soon”. And that was just the ones who'd dared to bring up the event. No one could seem to say that Voldemort had murdered Cedric, and that his murderer was still out there.

Life went on, for some.

“I can't do what you do Harry. I can’t stand up to Umbridge like that and tell her to her face that she’s wrong about why he died. That...every time she pretends You-Know-Who isn’t back, she’s spitting on Cedric’s memory.”

Sometimes Harry was able to forget his embarrassment at his many outbursts brought on by being in Umbridge’s class. He was sure both Hermione and McGonagall would have preferred he not receive encouragement for academic disruption, but it was nice to hear that his painful detentions had earned him at least some respect.

“So what’s this got to do with any of that?” Harry asked. He noted that it was nearing time for them to head back to Hogwarts. The sky was darkening towards purple, though Hagrid hadn’t yet put out the lantern that was their signal curfew was approaching. He sighed.

One by one the things that had made Hogwarts home were being taken away from him. Harry no longer felt safe in the one place that had felt like his. There were the obvious things, like losing Quidditch, and gaining Umbridge. Dumbledore still wouldn't look at him. But if you had asked Harry to give a reason why, it would have been none of those things. Something crucial had shattered his trust, and all the rest were just side effects.

Hogwarts was supposed to be a haven of magic and learning, but it was as though the real Hogwarts has been Vanished over the summer, and the castle that Harry had returned to in September had been a hastily done replica. The same in size and shape, yet decidedly off-kilter. Wherever the spirit of the castle had gone, she must have taken the heart of the thing along with her.

Harry found himself taking long rambles throughout the grounds. Fifth years were allowed out until 10 on weeknights, but he wore the Invisibility Cloak anyways. He couldn’t stand being inside.

Hermione would wait up for him in the common room, not saying said a word about how he’d make better use of his time catching up on the mountains of assignments their professors had assigned for O.W.L.s. However she was likely to give him a rather pointed look with her raised eyebrows.

The three Gryffindor’s had their ways of getting through the night they never really spoke about; Hermione and her hats, Ron and the hours of extra Keeper practice, and Harry with his tireless wandering.

“They were Cedric’s idea, at the last task…it was a very Hufflpuff-minded thing to do.” Luna said. Harry found himself joining in on the thestral decorating, and sweetness of the petals brought back the smell of the freshly trimmed maze. The Third Task…

The memory of the last time he had seen those flowers came back to Harry. It had been just before the third task started and Harry had caught a glimpse of the crowd. He’d known to expect a few glowing POTTER STINKS, but they were a fair amount of gold and red. The Diggory supporters sported the usual gold and black, but the flowers were extra…not just worn by Hufflepuff. In fact, it looked as though the yellow flowers, camellias...Harry finally recalled, were being passed out to all students.

Then the third task had started, and Harry hadn’t considered the crowd, or petty things like who had been supporting who for Hogwarts Champion. But he remembered liking the gesture at the very least. It reminded him a bit of the unity that the Sorting Hat and Dumbledore always seemed to go on about, but not as forced.

Aside from the nightmares, the green flash of light, Voldemort’s high cruel laughter—Harry didn’t dwell much on the night of the Third Task.

When he thought about Cedric, it was the life he’d never gotten to live that haunted his waking hours. It was the friendship they should’ve gotten the chance to have, or not. The schoolboys arguments over Cho’s affections they might have had, or not. Cedric had just been a decent enough guy who’d stepped into the wrong story; The Chosen One's story.

The trouble with grieving a Golden Boy was that Harry didn’t know him well enough to really imagine the conversations they might have had. He’d try, but it always felt selfish, felt wrong.

Occlumency was supposed to lessen the guilt in time; he was supposed to really let himself feel the emotions he was feeling, but without judgement, and then it'd supposedly lose power over him. Occlumency was worth shit when it came to lessening Harry’s emotions. Maybe if he hadn’t spent hours spilling his memories in Snape’s office before the professor had deigned to tell him this vital trick of the craft, Harry would’ve been able to practice it without boiling with anger every time.

Harry felt odd talking to Ron and Hermione about any of this. He could feel that they were afraid to bring up the subject of Cedric with him, and reflecting on how he’d reacted when they’d brought up other sensitive subjects...he couldn’t really blame them. Harry felt they had enough worries, add to them a confession that he wasn’t dealing well at all with Cedric’s death wouldn’t have helped anyone all that much. A hero would have continued to suffer with quiet dignity. A hero wouldn’t have to be shaken awake after another screaming nightmare.

And Cho? He liked her, made excuses after DA meetings to hang out with her, but he didn't know how to be alone with her. She was so open, she couldn't help but be so open about her pain, and yet her tears seemed to sting him like acid. Whenever he tried to offer comfort he'd freeze up, fumble to change the subject without letting her catch the sudden hitch in his breathing. The urge from nowhere-(but didn't Dumbledore know where)-to lash out, to strike with fangs he didn't have at enemies he couldn't see.

Cho's relationship to Cedric had been clear: lover, friend. Who was Cedric to him, a rival? A mentor? A spare hero? How could Harry allow himself to cry over someone who, but for Harry would still be alive? Take Harry out of the picture, and who knows what Cedric could have done with his life.

A tugging on his robes brought Harry back to the present. The friendly colt was searching the folds of his school robe for any remaining traces of meat. Belatedly he reached with a clean hand for his wand and quickly muttered a cleansing charm. Ron had once described the symptoms of wizard salmonella, and Harry didn’t want to find out how much he’d been exaggerating.

“This’ll be good.” Harry said, looking at the now completely flower-laden thestral herd. The thestrals had been surprisingly cooperative, sticking around much longer than usual after their food had been finished, and were now restlessly pawing at the ground. Harry wondered if thestrals could understand talk of death as well, if it was like an extra sense to them. He wondered if they could taste it.

The stars were out as the three of them made their way back to the castle. Neville proudly described the charms he’d put on the seeds. Harry and Luna were content to listen.

“They’ll really look lovely in the morning; I don’t know if you caught a glimpse, but they sort of glow from the center in the light?”

As they passed the Great Hall, Harry was struck with sudden inspiration, and by the time each of them had made it back to their respective rooms, Neville’s camellia shrub was bare of flowers, and the house tables were heavy with garlands of gold and yellows.

“Oh and just wait until you see Umbridge try to Vanish these! I figured out Fred and George’s trick with the Firecrackers…there’ll just be ten more anytime you try to get rid of one. Wait until we tell the rest of the DA!” Neville had been excited as he told them the inner workings of how the spells had interacted with the shrub’s growth, but the three of them had agreed not to call a meeting about their memorial.

Tomorrow it would be a memorial for everyone, tomorrow it would be a dig at Umbridge, perhaps even a call for unity between the houses, but for tonight it was just for them. Flowers were fragile; they’d fall off the thestrals eventually, and wilt.

It wasn’t enough, but it was something.

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from the Pete Seeger folk song, "Where Have All The Flowers Gone"


End file.
